No Holiday for Crime

by Dell Shannon

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

'A Luis Mendoza story means superlative suspense' Los Angeles Times There's no holiday from crime at the Los Angeles Police Department, not even at Christmas. Among a string of bizarre cases, there's the very mysterious killing of Lila Askell, the young devout Mormon who was on her way home for Christmas but is found strangled and thrown out of a car. As the Christmas trees are being decorated and the presents wrapped, Lieutenant Luis Mendoza has one of his toughest cases on his hands...

Release date: May 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

“I CAN JUST HEAR the whole force laughing at me,” said Lieutenant Goldberg, formerly of Central Robbery and Theft LAPD. He squinted up
dolorously from the hospital bed.

“Don’t be such an egotist,” said Lieutenant Mendoza, formerly of Central Homicide. “We’re too busy to think about you, and you’re nearly over it anyway.”

Lieutenant Goldberg’s last investigation for Robbery and Theft had been a case involving stolen goods smuggled across the Mexican border. The stolen goods had been a dozen cagefuls of
exotic tropical parrots, and Goldberg and one of the San Diego detectives had subsequently succumbed to parrot fever.

“It’s a judgment on me,” he said gloomily, “for laughing at you when you caught the measles from the twins. Have you caught up to that burglar yet?”

Mendoza’s grin gave way to a scowl. He stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside table. “Set me chasing burglars—I might as well be riding a black-and-white
again,” he said. “No, we haven’t.”

“They say it’s a sign of age,” said Goldberg, “when a man can’t adjust to change.” He sneezed and reached for Kleenex.

“¡Vaya al diablo!” said Mendoza amiably. “I’m not the old dog learning new tricks—that’ll be you, and I wish you joy of working under
Pat.”

“Don’t be petty, Luis,” said Goldberg. “The Jews and the Irish always get on fine. So what about that houseman—has he pulled any more jobs?”

Mendoza stood up and yanked his cuffs down automatically, straightened his tie. As usual he was dapper in gray Italian silk, snowy shirt, discreet tie, his hairline moustache neat. “That
nurse said ten minutes. Well, if it’s the same boy, yes, he has, but I’m not sure of that, and we’ve got no leads at all. Don’t remind me. And don’t offer any
suggestions—it’s not your job any longer.”

“Oh, well,” said Goldberg philosophically, “you can’t win ’em all. At least I’m getting out of this damned place tomorrow. Thanks for dropping in,
Luis—say hello to the gang, hah?”

“You’ll be adjusting to change in no time,” said Mendoza. “Merry Christmas, Saul.”

“And a happy Hanukkah to you, Luis.”

Waiting for the elevator, Mendoza thought about the burglar and frowned. Change be damned, he thought. Doubtless they’d settle down to it, but to be dealing with housebreakers like any
team in a squad car— “¡Por mi vida!” he muttered.

Change had come to Central Headquarters LAPD in the name of greater efficiency after the powers that be had discussed and decided. Los Angeles might boast the top force anywhere, but it was also
the smallest police force any city of size possessed. Keeping it at top performance, the changes sometimes came. Robbery and Theft had been dissolved as a separate department, last month, and the
new bureau of Robbery-Homicide created; that was the major change, but there’d been a few others. Captain Medina had got shot up by a hood a couple of months back, and retired a year early,
so Pat Callaghan had got his step in rank and Goldberg was transferred up to an expanded Narco bureau, with most of the men from his old office. Mendoza had inherited Robbery’s policewoman,
Wanda Larsen—he couldn’t imagine why, there wasn’t much for her to do—and a couple of men, Detectives Rich Conway and Emil Shogart. With that small addition to staff,
Robbery-Homicide now covered all theft and death on the Central beat, and these days that could be quite a job; as usual, they were busy.

Getting into the big black Ferrari downstairs, Mendoza glanced at his watch. Two-fifteen; he’d stopped to see Goldberg after lunch. In another six hours it would be officially Christmas
Eve: a mild, clear December Sunday: one time, like a few others in the year, when police officers got reminded that the hoods and crooks didn’t take holidays off. Alone of all the men in the
office, Sergeant John Palliser would be off tomorrow: to the others it would be just another day, hopefully a quiet one. But there were always cases to work; Mendoza reviewed what they had on hand
at the moment, heading back toward Parker Center.

The hijacker. Inside information there?—not necessarily. In the last three weeks three trucks ferrying expensive cargoes of liquor from warehouses to retail stores had been hijacked. It
was a job difficult to get leads on: there were a lot of restaurants and bars in L.A. whose owners might jump at getting a few cases of liquor at a cut rate.

The burglar and/or burglars. That case—if it was a single case—had got underway back in November before the departmental changes. It looked (said Goldberg’s records) like the
same M.O., in a vague sort of way. Six hits, four apartments and two single houses, entry made through windows, and the places picked clean of all possible loot: at one place he’d even taken
an obsolete set of encyclopedias, at another a cheap cigarette-making machine. Otherwise, a run-of-the-mill burglar, working evenings, and no lead on him at all.

The latest teen-age body full of the acid, found in an alley along Main, not yet identified.

The hit-run along Wilshire four days ago: a vague make on the car, the first two letters of the plate-number. The victim had been an elderly pensioner on the way home from a Christmas shopping
trip.

A couple of service station heists, no leads on those either. The rate on that kind of thing always rose in December, people needing money for Christmas shopping. He could only return thanks
that the hordes of shoplifters were dealt with on a lower level as a rule.

And, of course, the new one just reported this morning . . . Parking the Ferrari, Mendoza grinned to himself. That one ought to belong to Bunco—the victims having only themselves to
blame.

Upstairs, he found Sergeant Lake studying a new paperback on dieting. At least the powers that be hadn’t asked them to move: they’d given Robbery-Homicide another corridor of
interrogation rooms and a second communal detectives’ office across the hall: four more desks and typewriters. The new sign pointed the way just beyond the elevators.

“Anything new, Jimmy?”

“Nope,” said Lake. “Not much. Art found that Elphick, where Dakin said he’d be, at work. He’s talking to him now. John and George are out on that gas station heist,
and Jase just came back from somewhere—”

As if conjured up by his name, Detective Jason Grace rushed out of the old sergeants’ office. “Hey,” he said excitedly, “hey, we did it! We’ve got her! Ginny just
called—the agency just called her to—we can have her right now, today! Oh, by God, but that’s the best Christmas present we’ll ever—” His chocolate-colored face
wore a broad grin. Matt Piggott and Henry Glasser, just coming in, heard that and they all beamed back at him.

“That’s great news, Jase—congratulations,” said Lake, swiveling around from the switchboard. The Graces had been sorting through the red tape with the County Adoption
Agency since August, trying to get little Celia Ann Harlow, so unexpectedly orphaned by that wanton killer.

“Say, look—if I can take off now—Ginny says they say we can take her right now, this afternoon—just some more papers to sign, and—” Grace was
excited.

“Go, go,” said Mendoza. “Merry Christmas, Jase.”

“It surely will be!” said Grace, and vanished precipitately toward the elevators. They looked after him, smiling.

“And for the baby too,” said Piggott, his long dark face serious. “Cute little thing. At least some good news to brighten the day. Listen, I’m not sure it’s the
same boy pulling all these break-ins now. The one on Friday night, he didn’t find some cash this Moon had stashed away, and everywhere else, the place was picked but clean.”

“¿Qué?” said Mendoza absently. “Well, as Saul reminds me, we can’t win ’em all.” He went across the hall to the new office, where
Sergeant Hackett sat at his desk talking to a nervous citizen.

“Mr. Elphick,” he said to Mendoza. “Lieutenant Mendoza.” He shifted his bulk in the desk chair and sighed. A recent bout with flu had, happily, reduced him by thirteen
pounds and he was trying to stay there by skipping lunch.

“Listen, I dunno why Al hadda go and tell you guys about that. He dint have no call,” said Elphick aggrievedly. “Look, it was only about four bucks, and hell, you guys make me
go in court, evidence, that bit, my wife’ll give me hell—listen, can’t we forget it, huh?” Mr. Elphick was about forty, shabbily dressed, and needed a shave.

“Not necessarily court, Mr. Elphick,” said Hackett. “We’d just like a description to add to Mr. Dakin’s. Come on, just tell us what happened and where.”

“Oh, hell,” said Elphick unwillingly. “It was only about four bucks, I let it go—I wasn’t hurt any. I make good money, you know construction pays good now—and
my wife—Al dint have no call drag me in on it—he was just tellin’ me what happened to him and I said I bet was the same lousy pair conned me, and when—”

“Yes, yes,” said Hackett. “From the beginning, please.”

“Well, hell,” said Elphick. “My wife— Well, I know Al just casual, see, we worked on a couple jobs together, and we both drop into this place sometimes, see, this Irish
Bar. He was tellin’ me about it yesterday, this dame give him the eye and he, well, like makes a deal with her, and she leads him down this alley, says it’s a way to her back door, and
this guy strongarms him and picks him clean. He was mad—”

Al Dakin had been mad enough, on thinking it over, to come in this morning and tell his story to cops. Al Dakin, however, was a bachelor.

“So, let’s hear a description,” said Hackett.

“My wife’d go straight up in the air,” muttered Elphick. “Oh, hell. Well—well—the dame was kind of medium, not tall or short—she’s got a lot of
black hair, and one o’ these little real short skirts—I never got a look at the guy, he jumped me from behind, I guess he was hidin’ behind a trash-can or some
place—he’s kind of big, all I could say— And look, if you expect me to go in court, just forget it, I’m not about to—”

“All right,” said Hackett. “Any guess at the woman’s age?”

“How’d I know that? She’s young, I guess—looks maybe twenny-five—” He shrugged. “Dames, all the makeup and all, I wouldn’t say—”

“Any further on?” said Mendoza when they’d let Elphick go. “And any guess how many victims haven’t reported it?”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” said Hackett. “A Mrs. Stone came in awhile back and wanted to look at that body, said it might be her nephew by the description of his clothes.
Shogart took her down to the morgue—”

“And is now,” said Mendoza, “bringing her back, I would guess.” A wailing female voice came nearer up the corridor.

“But why did it have to be Johnny? Why—all this awful dope—those fiends who make the kids use this awful—” A burst of sobs, and Shogart’s deep phlegmatic
voice.

“If you’ll just sit down, Mrs. Stone, and try to—I know you’re upset—”

Policewoman Larsen hurriedly crossed the hall from her desk. This was the kind of thing Policewoman Larsen was there for, presumably, but it didn’t happen often.

“Merry Christmas,” said Hackett tiredly.

“Nothing new, Arturo. Se comprende. Anything more on the hijacker?”

“Nada. I had that last driver down looking at mug shots, but what can he tell us? The fellow had a ski-mask on, same as the other jobs. People!” said Hackett. “And we
haven’t even got the tree up yet, with this damn flu going through the whole family—”

“¡Tenga paciencia!” said Mendoza cheerfully. “We could be busier. And you haven’t heard about Jase—” Hearing about that, Hackett looked a little
happier; Palliser and Higgins came in to hear that, and smiled.

“Good news, all right. Say, Luis, come to think I haven’t had a chance to show you the latest snapshots—” Inevitably Higgins reached for his breast pocket and Hackett
uttered a mock groan.

“Dangers of late marriages—at least I will say, Luis, you never foisted all the snapshots on us—”

But Higgins was busy passing them out, his craggy face fond. “Isn’t she a doll? And smart as they come too—even at just three months she—”

They grinned covertly at Higgins, looking at the latest snapshots of Margaret Emily. Higgins the longtime bachelor, so unexpectedly falling for Bert Dwyer’s widow, had been pleased enough
with his secondhand family, Bert’s kids Steve and Laura; now he was still a little incredulous that he and Mary had a firsthand daughter. Well, she was a cute baby.

“You just wait till April,” said Palliser. “We’ll outproduce you, George.” And he was still feeling amused at the joke Fate had played on his Robin, starting a baby
when she’d planned to be a working wife. “It’s a handful of nothing on that heist, by the way. Stanton couldn’t give us any description.”

“Helpful,” said Mendoza. “Burglars and heist-men— ¡condenación!” But he had had to admit that the change had been, in a way, a logical one; on a
beat like Central’s, the robbery and homicide were so often connected.

“It was just one man, and that ties it in loosely with that one last week,” Palliser went on. “But even that isn’t sure, because—”

“Lieutenant—” Lake poked his head in the doorway, looking resigned. “A new body. Of all places, over by the museum in Exposition Park. One of the maintenance crew just
found it and called in.”

“¿Y cómo no?” said Mendoza. “All right, Jimmy. Come on and do some legwork, Art.”

Higgins went along too, while Palliser started a follow-up report on the heist of last night.

Exposition Park was a complex of buildings out on Exposition Boulevard, a generous tract squared by Figueroa Street, Santa Barbara Avenue, and Vermont. There were the famous
every-variety-known rose gardens: the Armory, the great Coliseum, the Sports Arena, the L.A. County Museum of Natural History, and in a separate building, the Science and Industry Museum. Turning
in the narrow avenue from Figueroa, the Ferrari nosed up past the Science Museum where a little knot of men gathered. The ambulance hadn’t come yet.

They showed their badges. “One of you called?” asked Hackett.

“Yessir, I did—I spotted it first. Ben Bates is my name, Officer, I’m head o’ the maintenance crew here, and one thing I tell you right off, she can’t’ve been
here long, not more’n a few minutes. We been cleanin’ floors today—look, Sunday, usual we’d be open, but day before Christmas, a holiday, it ain’t. Open, I mean. We
been doin’ the floors, this building and over in the other museum—and I only got over here about half an hour ago, figured start on the top floor anyways before we knock off for
dinner—I come in the front way with my key, right up there, and she wasn’t there then—” He was a big stocky man, excited and upset.

Mendoza and Higgins had parted the little crowd and were looking at the corpse.

“And then about twenty minutes later, I come back out to go help Bill fetch over that heavy polisher—and there she was! And I figured—”

It wasn’t a very big corpse: a slight girl with blonde hair, sprawled limp just at the curb where the walk led to the building steps. Mendoza squatted over it.

“No handbag,” said Higgins, fingering his prominent jaw. There was no cover for twenty feet around: just pavement. “Poor girl. Seems—well, I don’t know. Christmas
Eve.” She was lying on one side, and from what they could see she’d been middling pretty: small pert features, fair skin. The short well-shaped nails of the hand outflung from the body
were carefully manicured, painted pale peach. “Not raped?”

Mendoza shook his head. “No sé, but it doesn’t look like it. Strangled at a guess.” There were marks on the girl’s throat. He picked up the hand. “Did
she fight him at all? Her nails are too short to have a guess. She’s still warm, she can’t be an hour dead.”

“But right here in broad daylight—” Bates was still shaken. “Poor young lady—who coulda done such a— Not half an hour ago I come right by here and she
wasn’t— It was when I come out after I’d unlocked the other door for—”

The ambulance came purring up, and the attendants came to look. “You want photographs, Lieutenant, or shall we take her?”

Mendoza stood up and lit a cigarette. “What for? There’s just the corpse. I don’t need a crystal ball to guess what happened. She was shoved out of a car, already dead. But
let’s have a good look all through the grounds for her handbag.” He surveyed the scene. “He couldn’t turn around here, not even if he was driving a Honda. He’d have to
go up to the Coliseum before he’d have space to turn. None of you heard a car?”

“Heard a car? In the grounds like? With all that traffic out there a block off?” Bates shook his head. “How’d anybody notice the difference? No, I didn’t see a car
nowhere in the grounds, all day, except our own cars over there behind the other building.” It developed that the other five men had been occupied with the floors at the Natural History
Museum during the short time the corpse could have arrived on the scene.

“All right,” said Mendoza. “Let’s try up by the Coliseum first.” Hackett and Higgins started up there in silence, each taking one side of the narrow drive, peering
at the ground. “You can take her,” said Mendoza. And everybody knew that Luis Rodolfo Vicente Mendoza was a cynic from the word go, but as the ambulance men lifted the small body to a
stretcher, he thought, Christmas Eve. She couldn’t be older than the early twenties. Her clothes were good, a brown tailored suit, lemon-colored blouse, rumpled now; he noticed that the skirt
was a modest length for these days, just covering her knees. One low-heeled brown shoe had come off. “I’ll want her jewelry.” There was a ring on one hand, a necklace.

The ambulance left, and he drove the Ferrari up to the Coliseum gates. “Any luck?”

“Not so far, and there’s not much cover. You think he just drove in the handiest spot empty of people and dumped her?”

“That’s what it looks like. So he may have dumped her handbag too.” There wasn’t much cover here, or back there where the corpse had been: what shrubbery there was,
formal and low-growing. Hackett was pacing up to the left where a walk led around the Coliseum to the various gates, Higgins up to the right. “I don’t think,” said Mendoza,
“if he did dump it here, he’d have got out of the car—it probably wouldn’t be—” But Hackett had suddenly pounced.

“He didn’t bother to turn around, Luis. He came round the Coliseum and drove out on Hoover. Dumping the handbag as he went.” Mendoza and Higgins had hurried up.

“And just the shapeless kind of thing that’s a real bastard to work,” said Higgins.

It was almost certainly the corpse’s handbag; it matched her suit, a capacious dark brown leather bag with several compartments. Hackett lifted it delicately by thrusting his pen under the
double straps. “Any bets on prints?”

That, of course, was the first thing to look for. Mendoza used the phone in the Ferrari to call up a mobile lab truck, and when it arrived Scarne dusted the entire outside of the bag. Latent
prints always offered them a shortcut, but only if there were any liftable ones present. This time, as so often happened, there weren’t.

“Smudges,” said Scarne sadly. “Sorry.”

“Way the cards fall,” said Higgins. “It’s still going to help.” Then they could open the bag. They took it back to the office, to look at the contents; as usual
with any female handbag, there were quite a few. They spread them out methodically on Mendoza’s desk.

A blue billfold with a change pocket; there was forty-seven dollars and fifty-eight cents in it. In the plastic slots for cards and photos, an I.D. card: Lila May Askell, an address in Santa
Barbara. In case of accident notify Mr. Edward Askell, an address in Salt Lake City. Snapshots of, probably, family groups: a couple of girls in their late teens or early twenties, an older couple,
a young man. A library card for the Santa Barbara public library. A California driver’s license good for another two years. A gasoline credit card.

One used and two clean handkerchiefs. A large gold compact full of loose . . .